Sure thing
by kardamon
Summary: She remembers fire. Sometimes she thinks it was white-hot and blinding. Sometimes she's sure it was red as blood. Sometimes she cannot get rid of the idea that it was black and cold and swallowed her whole. (or the one where Prim lives)


**Here is one more. Before we start, I'd like to say a few things:**

 **First, I want to make it clear that I absolutely respect that Suzanne Collins ended the book the way she did and understand why she decided to sacrifice Prim. However, that doesn't mean that we can't wish for things to go differently and indulge in a little fantasy - and because I have a soft spot for Haymitch, he got to play the unlikely hero.**

 **In this universe Prim wasn't present in the Capitol during the final days of the war, but the bomb still went off (so there were casualties and Katniss was still hurt in the explosion).**

 **I used a few original lines from the book (Katniss-Haymitch dialogue), so just to be clear, if you see something you recognise, that's because it's not mine.**

 **And lastly, this story contains some Hayniss undertones, so consider yourself warned (in case that's not your thing).**

 **Rated T for swearing.**

* * *

At first she wakes only for a few minutes at the time, in the short interims when one doze of drugs slowly stops working and the next one has yet to kick in. It's enough to register little beside the pain: sharp smell of medicine, light too soft for the hospital unit, sometimes hushed tones of quiet conversation, a glimpse of an unfamiliar, luxurious room she's resting in. She doesn't know how long she stays in this odd in-between state where her horrid memories, tiring dreams and scarce glimpses of awareness blur into one, amorphous, feverish reality.

She remembers screams. She remembers the heat. She remembers dead children.

She remembers fire. Not the comforting fire glowing at the hearth that provides warmth and light during long winter nights or the exhilarating, beautiful flames Cinna used to dress her into, but angry, scorching blaze of explosion that burns everything to the ground.

Sometimes she thinks it was white-hot and blinding. Sometimes she's sure it was red as blood. Sometimes she cannot get rid of the idea that it was black and cold and swallowed her whole.

"Hey," she hears suddenly and she forces her eyes to open.

Her lips move, but she cannot find her voice quite yet, so she only mouths the word: " _Prim_."

She stares at her like she's afraid the image could be ripped away from her, but she doesn't need to fear – she's there, beside her bed – her little sister, so good, kind and lovely. So concerned.

She calms down immediately at the sight, because if Prim's here, then things can't be so bad after all. The room feels safer than mere minutes before, hell, the whole world does. Because Prim doesn't belong with war and fire and dead children. She belongs with home – and with her, Katniss.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to get here," Prim says. "I would have come sooner if I could. I was supposed to be on the first transport along with the medical staff, even before the explosion, but _someone_ thought I should not be allowed to go with them until the fights were over and stopped me the last possible moment before I could get on the hovercraft."

Prim shoots a glare over Katniss's head at something – _someone_ – at the other side of the room, probably standing in the entrance – someone who she seems to blame for her own delayed arrival, but Katniss doesn't care. She's here, they're both here and they're safe.

Katniss tries to lift herself a little so she can take a better look around, but she gives up immediately when sharp pain resonates through her whole body. Prim moves quickly, her hands flying to hover over her sister's form.

"Don't get up. It's too early. Your skin is still raw."

"What… How long…" Katniss has to swallow again. She knows she's hurt, badly. That part wasn't a dream. She wants to ask of the extent of her injuries, but her dry throat won't let her to get out a single full question.

"You're going to be okay. We're taking care of you, but you need time to heal."

"Peeta?" she croaks. "Gale?"

"They're fine. They're both fine. Mom is here. She's been watching over you. The war is over. Rest, now."

She lets the comforting words lull her into a long forgotten sense of security and she lets go of the questions and fears that still trouble her, at least for a short while. She drifts away again, for once not afraid of what she might find waiting for her in her dreams.

* * *

Later, when she rushes through the maze that is the presidential mansion, she doesn't even stop to think why he's the first one – the only one – who pops into her mind after the dreadful suspicion starts growing on the edge of her consciousness. There is no rational reason why she would want to _confide_ in him (he proved time and again that sensitivity wasn't his forte in the past), but as all the pieces of the disturbing puzzle fall into place, screaming at her from the back of her head (Gale's hunting tips… Beetee's bombs projects… Snow's unsettling words… Boggs's warnings… the power of sheer _logic_ …) she instinctively knows that there is only one person she can go to with that.

Maybe it's because there is no doubt in her mind that he wasn't part of the scheme – because as callous and selfish as Haymitch can be at times, there is absolutely no way she could imagine that man, who had been sentenced to the lifetime of delivering kids to the slaughter every year, agreeing to the plan that involved dropping a bomb on the square full of children.

No. He was capable of many things. Not _this_.

She finds him in one of the numerous abandoned palace rooms. He's slumped on the old armchair and he barely lifts his head at her loud entrance. There is a bottle in his hand, no doubt full of some kind of alcohol he found in the building. No surprise there.

"Oh. You," he says eyeing her critically.

It's fairly obvious that he's been drinking for a while and he's already quite intoxicated, but she's so upset it doesn't make her pause.

"Haymitch," she begins. "I need your help."

"What is it?" he mocks. "Boy trouble?"

For some reason, that hurts her in a way Haymitch rarely can. It must show on her face, because he quickly drops the sarcastic smirk and sits straighter as her tone finally registers, even in his drunken state.

It's too late, though. Katniss turns on her heel and almost runs out of the room, suddenly very much in a hurry to get far away from him.

"Okay, not funny," he hastily tries to take it back. "Not funny! Hey! Come back!"

She feels his grip on her elbow as he's doing his best to catch up with her and her anger boils over. She prepares herself to spin around and snap at him - or maybe slap him - because – because…

 _What was he thinking?_ What right does he have to joke at the time like this? Doesn't he know…?! How dare he… Doesn't he know _her_?

So many people have died, innocent civilians, children… all those medics rushing to help… For God's sake, Prim could have been there if…

She freezes.

Prim's rant from a few days earlier suddenly rings in her ears again.

…if _someone_ didn't stop her at the last possible moment…

She feels lightheaded as the implications of that statement hit her. It could have been anyone, but she can't shake the weird hunch that she knows exactly who her sister was talking about.

Because, really, who was left in Thirteen who would have thought of stopping Prim?

Her mom? Possibly - but no, she didn't really believe it was her. Who could it be that sweet, polite Prim would have no problem in scoffing and glaring at?

Katniss stops abruptly causing Haymitch to bump into her and almost knock her over. She turns around much slower than she intended.

"It was you, wasn't it?" she manages to force the question through the constricted throat. "You stopped Prim from coming here with the rest of the medical team."

"Look, sweetheart," he says defensively, his words slurred. "I know you might not like this, and I'm not saying she's not good at the whole healing business, but she's only _fourteen_ , and I really don't think the war-zone is the right place…"

She catches him completely by surprise when she throws her arms around his neck and plants a firm kiss on his cheek.

"Thank you," she breathes sincerely.

He freezes in confusion, obviously a little freaked out by this unexpected display of affection. He stands there awkwardly, not knowing what to do with his hands, while Katniss hugs him tightly.

He doesn't hug her back. He doesn't step away either.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asks, but his voice lacks the intended bite.

She laughs a little at that, though she still feels ill at the thought of what might have – _would_ have happened if not for that obnoxious, rude, infuriating –

…she holds onto him for longer than she probably should, taking advantage of the fact that she apparently stunned him enough with her sneak-hugging technique to prevent him from pushing her away. Finally, she takes a deep, shaky breath and fumbles to explain, spilling chaotic half-sentences:

"I think… I think it wasn't Snow," she all but whispers into his ear.

"What are you talking about?" he asks sharply.

"The bomb… it doesn't make any sense, does it? Think, Haymitch! For them, no sense. No sense at all to drop it. And… You remember Beetee and Gale's talks of hunting traps? And Prim! You were right. She should have never been there. Why was she there? She wasn't the only underage medic, so why her? How was that a coincidence? Who would have done such a thing? Who would benefit from that?"

She pulls back, but only a little, only enough to be able to look at his face. She's never seen anyone sobering so fast.

They stare at each other for a few gravely tense seconds while understanding rapidly downs on him; two pairs of Seam eyes locked with each other.

"What are you saying?" he asks hoarsely, but he already knows. She doesn't even answer. There is no need. Last remains of her own hopeful doubts melt when she watches him coming to the same conclusion as she did before him.

" _Fuck_ ," he utters, loud and clear. "Fuck! That _bitch_."

So, they agree on that too.

He finally moves his arm toward her and she feels his warm hand resting on the nape of her neck in an unexpectedly comforting gesture.

"She needs to pay," Katniss says, her voice trembling with barely contained rage. "She doesn't get to get away with this. She's no better than him. She can't get the power. That's not what we fought for, not what Boggs and Finnick and all the others died for!"

That odd, undefined connection they share that allows them to communicate with each other without speaking any actual words sizzles to life and she knows that Haymitch instantly understands what she really means by that. The enormity of what happened and what needs to be done hangs heavily in the air.

He doesn't make any attempt to talk her out of this. He simply nods slowly.

She cannot shake off the feeling that they'd just made some sort of twisted pact.

"Are you with me?" she asks softly.

 _Are you with me or them? Are you going take my side if I go against them?_

 _Can I trust you? Will you trust me?_

A roguish smirk curls the corner of his mouth.

"Sure thing, Mockingjay," he says, his tone light, but his eyes never leaving hers. "We're a team, right?"

So many people have tried to speak in her name lately, including her in one "we" or another just to claim her like a bargaining chip you can use to strengthen your arguments, something she felt the need rebel against - but for some reason it didn't bother her at all when Haymitch said that. Coming from him, it meant nothing more or less than that he had her back.

"Right," she whispers.

There is something strangely intimate, yet absurdly in tune with the conversation they're having about how close they're standing – so close that she can count the specs on his irises. She suddenly becomes aware that they breathe the same air, their horrible secret suspended in the scarce space between them. Surprisingly, it doesn't make her nervous or uncomfortable. After all, there aren't many things that bond stronger than plotting a murder together.

Neither of them looks away.

Slowly, almost lazily, Haymitch moves his head, but instead of straightening his neck he leans down and gently rests his forehead against hers.

Neither of them knows how long they stand there, leaning against each other; two victors sharing the weight of the world.


End file.
